


How to save a life

by AssumeEveryoneWithASwordIsQueer



Series: Just wild knights defying the world [6]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssumeEveryoneWithASwordIsQueer/pseuds/AssumeEveryoneWithASwordIsQueer
Summary: Nobody who remembers Camlann would call this title an instructional guide.
Series: Just wild knights defying the world [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009782
Comments: 1





	How to save a life

**Author's Note:**

> The personafied Camelot's name is finsceal, Irish for legend. It's pronounced fin-scale

Camelot, at least when taking the form of a Human rather than the swirling mass of magic and mystery they truly were, looked like a young child. Usually a female, since women wore dresses, and those were easier to move around in, and Kingdoms did _ a lot  _ of moving. They took the form of a child to seem less suspicious. The kingdom was anything but young. The location known as Camelot had been around for at least three centuries. 

Though Camelot, who had always been called Finsceal, had never grown past looking like a child of about ten years old, was quite tiny, they were an excellent fighter, especially when they were fighting to keep themself safe. They felt everything that was happening in the location of Camelot. They did not fight in Camlann, a losing battle from the start, they chose to lurk under a tree when they were too incompasitated with pain to strike someone, which was more often than not.

When the people fled, their legs just about gave out on them, and they knew the castle was under siege when they could no longer hold their shield up. As the castle burned to the ground, their sword arm went numb, and as most of the knights were slaughtered, their sight faded.

The relationship between kingdoms and their rulers are always strange, usually becoming something parental. Finsceal hadn’t ever liked Guinevere, nor the man she decided to run away with, though in all fairness, they hated most of the knights, never giving them a chance to defend themself. Arthur was different. He was kind, and saw Finsceal as a person, not an object, or even the personification of his kingdom, which they were. As an equal-well not really, he tended to talk about them like an annoying younger sibling, but to be fair no one warned him Camelot could turn into a person and would sass God without hesitating.

It only made sense in a time that wasn’t fond of women kingdoms, nations and even empires were closer to their kings. Finsceal felt themself lose the battle, and as quickly and painlessly as they could manage, shifted into a wisp of air, letting themself be pushed toward where the horrible pain in their chest was calling them until they came to the lakeshore, where the ground was not stained with blood everywhere, but in two small puddles. One under and unrecognizable mass that used to be an usurper named Mordred.

The other was Arthur, whom they had seen as a brother. Who taught them it was okay to have fun, who tried to keep things equal and fair, who erased all the cruelty they learned from Uther, who helped them take care of Albion until it was clear she was dying. The Arthur who never focused on a man’s skin color when judging his crime, the Arthur who always kept his eyes above the neck of a lady, and who kept crying children calm in crisis’ and told them stories of wild beasts and far away lands in the sky. The Arthur who might as well have raised Camelot, who turned their eyes yellow with joy and imagination was dying on a battlefield. No wonder Finsceal’s heart felt like it was breaking despite the fact that it didn’t even exist.

They forced themselves into the mess of blood, flesh, armor, bones and limbs of a Human to push past Griflet and Bedivere with their broken arms and collapsed at the side of their only friend.

“Can you hear me?” xe asked desperately. He didn’t open his eyes. Humans always blinked, opened their eyes, looked around when spoken to, but he was far from responding. The usurper had left a terrible gash in the side of his head, responsible for the red soaked into the once lively and beautiful green grass, maybe there was blood in his ears and he hadn’t heard them.

“Arthur, come on, wake up”, they said, ignoring the two knights behind them. He listened, at least a bit, and they filled with tears. The others could not see, but Finsceal could see that he was surprised. The kingdom could only imagine what their Human body looked like.

For starters, they had shifted from neither female nor male, as they needed to be able to hold a shield without a chest in their way, but they also didn’t want to worry about getting kicked where no man wanted to be kicked, so neither it was. The kingdom had never been seen in an androgynous body, usually a male in battle and times of war for the sake of intimidation, strength and needing to be taken seriously, and a female in times of peace to negotiate with the citizens, agility and dress comfortably. 

Aside from... _ that _ their skin where it was not bruised, bloody or covered in the gore of enemies, was as green as the leaves in the trees, their eyes were black with the fear and rage of their people without a trace of any other color, and their hair was shorter than usual, but not so much as the swirling brown and white mess with blue stripes forming was floating around their head like the halo of a begrudged Angel. They had fangs sharper than Excalibur where their teeth belonged. Their armor hung off in splintered, shattered chunks, embedded deep in their legs and torso. The clothing underneath had not survived their shapeshifting, having warped and melted to them as tight as skin.

There was no way Arthur was recognizing them. Even their voice was disembodied and echoing across the plain and hills, booming louder and deeper and harsher than a Human body should allow. Blood painted their lips gold. Most of the blood had splattered from slain enemies and splashed onto them from the ground, but the wounds covering their body were mostly reflecting their knights’ and even reflective of Arthur’s mortal one. But the blood being thrown up and leaking out of the gaping wounds on their head and chest from the shredded armor was ambrosia. The wine of a god. Pure kingdom blood.

Camelot was dying and Finsceal wasn’t there to help themself to safety. They were soon to have no anchor into the living world. Nor would they be able to enter Avalon, only able to wander the land they once embodied as a spirit. Little more than an idea. 

“Finsceal… kiddo, don’t cry”, Arthur’s raspy voice said, so quiet that Griflet and Bedivere couldn’t hear, but perhaps he simply couldn’t manage the energy to speak louder than that. The kingdom had never met anyone else, other than the few knights they could tolerate, had bothered to be so kind and gentle with them when they were so ticked to use their warp spasm that would send a less controlled or understanding king running away. Without realizing it, Finsceal touched a hand to their cheek, it came away silver, and it quickly hardened into that very metal. Excalibur glowed weakly where it fell from Arthur’s hand where he no doubt collapsed. The blade had been forged out of the metals formed when kingdoms and empires cried.

“Don’t cry? How would I not be crying right now?” they yelled, angered, agitated, and hurt. There was not a single part of their body, of their soul that was not hurting. They did not know the pain of their knights from that of their king, nor the pain of their people from their own.

“I know child, I know, but you must remain strong just a bit longer.” he said. Finsceal could feel the physical kingdom losing strength, becoming powerless. They hated it.

“Stay with me, please. I don’t want to lose you”, they cried, gripping his freezing cold hand. Colder than ice, so cold that steam rose from it, as Finsceal had righteous fire in their blood. (About 110 degrees fahrenheit in Human temperatures). Even they could tell living people were not supposed to be that cold. 

“You are losing nothing, I live on in your memories,” he assured. Finsceal turned their head to hide the liquid metal tears carving deep scars into the skin of their face. That stood out from the rest of the horrible pain ripping through their body and they did not know why. It had always been as such. They could not pry the armor, suddenly burning them as the location fell under siege. Arthur cried out in pain, feeling the same loss and turmoil clawing at his skull just as Finsceal was. They shifted into their more feminine form to slip smaller fingers under the sheets of metal and tore them off of their body as well as Arthur’s to give Griflet access. 

They didn’t like Griflet, often seeing him as a snob and a twat, but he was one of the best medics they ever met, able to tend to nations, as he had helped in trying to recover what was left of Albion’s soul. It was as though he was immune to the inhuman strength of Empires, the spitfire defiance of kingdoms and the godlike and controlling authority that radiated off of nations. A lot of nations were easy to deal with, and Empires could be worse, but it was the kingdoms welcoming the presence of a medic when wounded that shocked people. Kingdoms were very small, but held the power of thousands of people, hundreds of knights and at least three powerful monarchs.

It was the passion, the furry and the ambition of hundreds of thousands in one quite little body. Whenever a kingdom was injured to breaking their skin, that power spilled out into an aura.

They moved aside enough that Griflet could reach Arthur, growling when he looked at them but did no more. They were broken beyond repair and recognition. Even in the state he was in, Arthur was more likely to walk off that battlefield than Finsceal and the people of Camelot could hope to.

“Bedivere, come closer, pay no mind to Finsceal’s anger. They have every right to be, but it is not at you”, he said. The war marshall stepped closer, always wary since Finsceal had bit his hand for getting too close when they first met. 

“I would like you to take Excalibur and cast her into the lake”, he said. The sword in question’s light died, and Finsceal’s right arm was taken by uncontrollable spasms for a few moments. 

“My lord, I”-

“What’s done is done. Cast her away, I know this hurts all of us, but this dream has run its course, but do not weep, for when the people look back upon this dark era, they will remember a many bad things, but their eyes, even those of the blind, will see a bright light. I may be a fool right now, my brains  _ are _ bloody near falling out, but I say it will not be forgot, there was once a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.” Arthur went on. Finsceal paid no mind, having directed Bedivere back to the lake again, and just having sent him to rid of Excalibur for the second time.

“I can’t stop the bleeding and there’s bone on my hands, I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can save you”, Griflet spoke, trying his hardest to shake away the blood of his king and friend that had begun coating his hands. Finsceal doubled over in agony, so overwhelmed they couldn’t scream. They tried to drag themself over to their friend when they could finally move, but Griflet blocked them, unappalled by the golden blood they smeared on his armor when they tried to knock his feet out from under him.

“Let them through, Griflet. There is only one more thing you can do, but we must wait for my marshall”, he said. Little argument came from the young knight, and shifting to a more masculine body for the sake of strength, Finsceal forced their form over until they were at their ruler’s side. They had never been close to Arthur’s queen, ever liked her, and she never made a move to get close with the very kingdom she ruled over. Finsceal had been ruled by so many kings that they had started seeing it all as one ruler with different faces. They knew Arthur long before he became king, so when they thought of their ruler, they often saw the face of their friend.

“Arthur you… you can’t die. We’re,...Finsceal-Legend. The name you gave me when you pulled Caliburn from the stone literally means legend. Kingdoms share names with the spirits of their rulers. Legends never die. You can’t die, you _ can’t! “ _ They cried. He reached up a very weak hand to ruffle the kingdom’s hair as they had at least three decades ago before anything went wrong.

“That’s right, legends don’t die, that is why you must carry on. I’ve written it all down. After all, Arthur is not so different than author. I’ve told this story. Add on, alter it. Do with my words as you wish.”he said. 

Finsceal edged closer, resting their head on his shoulder now. Their tears burned through his shirt, but he wasn’t reacting.Finsceal couldn’t physically hurt him anymore than he already was. The hand fell from their head and he wrapped his arm around the kingdom. 

“Sir, Bedivere has arrived.” Griflet called, sheepish and shaky. Not wanting to interrupt the last moments of a relationship close enough to be called like that of a father and child. Finsceal was in many ways, still a child, and they were tired of trying to be strong all the time. 

“There is a boat on the waters that can be used to help me to Avalon. The three queens will be there waiting to take me into the Inbetween. However, I am not even strong enough to even sit up right now, I need the three of you to help me to it”, he said. Finsceal held onto his hand as they pulled away, and Griflet and Bedivere lifted him up. A trail of gold smeared on the grass as they dragged their feet behind them until a bone in their thigh snapped and they were forced to shift back into a swirling cloud.

When Griflet and Bedivere set Arthur down at the lakeside, there was no boat. Finsceal switched over to the Human body, the androdgynous one they always felt more comfortable in and collapsed at his side again, crawling close. 

“Tell all about the bright shining light. About the joy, the love, the bravery and the daring.And don’t be afraid to tell the world about all the not so great things too. Be the legend you are, Finsceal. Survive in what way you might, for when Albion needs me the most, I will return. And you will be who you truly are again.” Arthur said.

Finsceal had a million things to say that they were more than capable of putting into words with a little help from the gods, but they kept silent. Albion was still alive, somewhere. A presence all around, but evidently she still lived enough as an actual person that Arthur could sense it despite dying himself. A boat, three figures in it, was nearing the lakeshore out of the mists.

“I’ll tell everyone everything in every way I can for as long as I shall need to”, they spoke. The boat docked, Excalibur was raised out of the water and spun in a circle three times before sinking back under, Griflet and Bedivere walked away, the queens stepped out and stood around them. With what must have been the last of his strength, Arthur squeezed an arm around them again. The queens pried the kingdom’s hands away and placed their ruler in the boat, and Finsceal sat, feeling utterly useless.

Arthur died after the mists closed behind the boat. Finsceal felt it, tearing them apart, spreading their influence, their story all across time and space with an echoing scream.

Legend.


End file.
